


Pearl Necklace

by applethief



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mind Reading, Monster/monster hunter, Sex, evil Tav, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applethief/pseuds/applethief
Summary: Wyll looks to scratch an itch and ends up growing fond of an emotionally unstable vampire instead.
Relationships: Wyll (Baldur’s Gate)/Astarion (Baldur’s Gate)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 159





	1. Pet Rat

“Oh, well, isn’t that too bad, Wyll. I thought you quite fancied Lae’zel.”

Wyll nearly spills his drink with a start. He isn’t sure where Astarion came from, but even in broad daylight he can be a sneaky bugger. Wyll composes himself, if barely, and the two watch the strange eroticism unfolding on the other side of the camp in silence. Their self appointed leader and the gith are caught up in a stand off, halfway between flirting, halfway between threatening one another.

“Maybe I’m not looking to complicate things right now,” Wyll lies. He half suspects Tav has waylaid Lae’zel just to get on his nerves. And now the vampire, usually a crawling, gleeful shadow in Tav’s destructive wake, is circling him like a wolf smelling blood.

“Why not? We could grow tentacles and loose all our teeth tomorrow! What you call complications, I call distractions. And you look like you could use... a distraction.” Astarion’s eyes catch an eerie glow in the firelight. Figures, he’s been cast aside and is looking to lick his wounds with someone else.

He’s not unattractive. Moon-pale, slender. He still smells like the smoke from the ambush. He’s also a vampire. Spawn or not, seduction is part of the creature’s deadly arsenal.

“Well, the ship’s sailed for us both, my friend.” Wyll holds his bottle towards Astarion for a toast, partly to defuse the situation. More jovial, less weirdly clingy and sexual. But the vampire steals Wyll’s bottle out of his hand and sips from it. It’s supposed to be seductive, but the wince Astarion makes at the flavour rather ruins the effect.

“Has it?” It pushes Wyll’s wine bottle back into his hands, smoothly gliding further into his personal space. “Come now. They don’t have to be the only ones getting entangled. There’s a spark here. It could be a blazing fire.” They’re a mere hand apart now and Astarion trails cold finger tips across Wyll’s arm.

Wyll barks a laugh. “You’re a manipulative beast and a self professed selfish liar. I suppose Tav saw sense and told his freakish pet rat to fuck off? I think I’ll do the same thing.”

But a puzzled hurt washes over the pale features of the vampire’s face for just a second. Just enough time for Wyll to question his impression of the creature. Then he falls back to a controlled sneer.

A few days ago, Astarion might have shanked him for the insult. Maybe it’s a marginal improvement of character which makes him opt for splashing his drink at Wyll instead. The cold wine seeps into his shirt. He takes a deep breath to quell his reaction. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, and if you speak to me like that again, you’ll regret it.” Astarion’s tone is light. Flat.

Despite himself, Wyll finds himself fumbling to make an excuse. “Look, it’s not that you’re unattractive, but I’d be _killing_ you, under different circumstances! I mean, going to bed with you and all your... teeth, it’s just...” Wyll gestures vaguely at Astarion in general. Why is he apologising to a beast? For not letting it trap him?

“You’d kill me? Oh, Wyll. Really? Really. No, I really might kill you now, if you don’t shut up.” He fails to hide the hurt in his voice again and Wyll has really hashed this up.

“I’m not saying it’s not a tempting thought-“

“And you’ll have to root around in your bedroll with nothing but the thought to entertain you.” Astarion swigs what is left of his drink, discards the bottle and stalks off, brushing past Shadowheart and Gale. They respectively give Wyll wry and sympathising grins that indicate they have been observing the whole exchange.

They trail over, after a moment of watching Astarion disappear into the crowd of tieflings.

Gale clears his throat. “Well, he’ll get over it. He’s quick to temper and quick to calm down, our Astarion. Prestidigitation?”

“Cheers, mate.” Wyll knocks back the rest of his own drink as he feels Astarion’s wine evaporate from his shirt.

He’s pleasantly woozy from the wine, and with all these people around to watch his back, he should be expecting the best night’s sleep he’s had since his kidnapping.

But frankly, he could do without the noises from their impromptu leader and the gith, taking their pleasure from one another. They are not overly close, but they are loud, and tent fabric does little to block sounds.

He’s surprised to find his mind drifting to the vampire. The hurt dejection at his words. Cool fingers on his arms. Eyes like sticky drops of blood. He made a right hash of that.

Wyll stubbornly does not root around in his bedroll.

A rustling of fabric catches his attention. He does not normally hear Astarion come and go during the night, though he knows the vampire sometimes prefers prowling the woods over languishing in camp while they rest. But tonight Astarion is clearly irritated, or a little too drunk to care for stealth.

Wyll spies him cross the planks across the river from the open flap of his tent, and makes a spontaneous decision. He’ll follow. Try to clear the air. Nothing more than that. Unless it goes that way. He does not have long to deliberate; he’ll loose Astarion quickly in this darkness. Wyll hastily pulls on shirt and his boots, hastily lacing them.

-

He’s lost Astarion. Hubris, really, to think he could trail a vampire in the dead of night. He squints his eyes at the moonlit ground, but there’s not a twig out of place or a single footprint in the soft forest floor to give him a hint. Anything that’s out here likely has him at a disadvantage anyway, so he summons a small wisp of light.

“Astarion?” He calls out. He hears an animal scramble off not too far ahead. “I’d just like to talk. If you want.”

Silence. Nothing but cricket chirps, wind in the trees, and the distant rumble of the river. He watches the darkness for a bit, but sees nothing.

“Or you can sulk alone, I suppose,” Wyll mumbles.

The vampire can see him, he expects. If Astarion does not show himself, he does not want to talk. No good would come of pushing it.

Wyll turns around to return to camp, and finds himself face to face with the vampire. Close enough to smell the wine on his breath. Wyll nearly jumps out of his skin, stumbling backwards. He catches himself on a tree trunk, narrowly avoiding falling on his ass. Astarion makes a noise at this display Wyll can only describe as a purr of enjoyment.

“Now then,“ the vampire displays his fangs with a smile that does not reach his eyes, “Whatever could you want? I suppose it’s not a midnight snack. I do not think I’d have anything that’d suit your palate, questionable as it is.”

Wyll stands up, brushing some tumbled leaves off his shirt. “I came to say sorry. Though it... seems like my offences keep mounting, if I just chased off your quarry.”

“By far not your greatest offence.” Astarion gazes into the darkness of the woods. He has no knife or bow, Wyll observes; clearly he plans to simply use his teeth. No armour or vest, just the ridiculously frilly shirt he was kidnapped in.

“We exchange some barbed jests, you and I. But what I said earlier was cruel. I’m sorry I hurt you.” Wyll really does mean it.

“I didn’t say that I was hurt. Only that you were uncouth,” the vampire sniffs.

“Well, on the off-chance you were a smidge hurt... Once more, I apologise. You’ve been a reliable ally and a worthy companion. And you, um. You’re not hard on the eyes. For what it’s worth.”

“Oh, hm, flatterer! You’re too kind! All is forgiven, oh, great Blade of the Frontiers, take me now!” Astarion touches a hand to his chest theatrically. ”You aren’t always this bumbling.”

Wyll cannot help but chuckle softly. “Only when I’m trying to be genuine.”

“Genuine? No. I think you want something.” Astarion moves towards him, but the sensual movements from earlier in the evening are gone. Wyll is starkly reminded of an adder, rearing up to strike. He takes a few steps backwards, hand hovering over the dagger sheathed in his belt. He does not think Astarion will try to hurt him, but it’d do him no good to challenge his pride again. The vampire’s voice is cheerfully mocking. “Look at you, hunter. You called me a pet rat earlier. I could kill you for that insult. Tav would probably not bother looking for your body.” Wyll can go no further, realising he’s been backed up against a tree. The vampire’s jaws suddenly gape and he moves as if to strike, stopping just short of Wyll’s throat. Breath tickles his throat, in place of piercing fangs. “Coming here to see me... very bold of you. How fortunate for you that I have drained ever so many goblins today.”

Wyll does not move. Clearly not the reaction the vampire was hoping for. The air near vibrates with tension. He meets Astarion’s glare calmly. “You’re welcome to hold a grudge you won’t get anything out of, or I could apologise properly by taking you up on your offer. I know you fancied Tav, but it’s like you said. He’s not the only person who gets to be entangled round here.”

“You’ve already insulted me once. I am not so desperate as that.”

“Maybe not. But I’m pretty sure you’re looking for a distraction, and I’m offering.”

The vampire’s eyes roam his face, calculating. Suspicious. Tentatively, a cold finger traces the scars of Wyll’s face. Wyll does not pull away; he holds the vampire’s hand in his own and brings it to his lips. Kisses the knuckles. Something in the vampire seems to soften. Almost sadden.

“Well... I did fancy Tav. He’s cruel. Practical. When he kills things, hmm, it’s very messy. But he... But I can fancy a lot of things, you know,” Astarion muses. He gingerly splays his other hand on Wyll’s chest, as if he still half expects this to be another joke. “You’re strong. And fast. Deliciously righteous. And if Tav is too dumb to appreciate me, you’re clearly much smarter than him, too.”

Wyll smiles, despite himself. “Why’s righteousness delicious to an unscrupulous vampire?”

Astarion hums, leans in for a kiss which trails down to his neck. Pale hands appraise Wyll’s body through the fabric of his shirt. He knows that he is well built, but the vampire’s clear pleasure in touching him still fills him with a strange sense of satisfaction. “Oh, opposition. Corruption. That sort of romantic nonsense.”

Wyll feels fangs scraping his skin, and half expects to have to pry the vampire off him. But the teeth are replaced by a soft tongue and Wyll places his hands on the small of Astarion’s back, lulling the vampire into settling firmly in his arms as he traces his artery with the tip of his tongue, utterly lost. So lost that he unbalances easily, when Wyll roughly pushes Astarion to the ground. He settles his weight firmly on the vampire, pinning him. He may be dumb enough to fuck a vampire, but he’s not dumb enough to let it control the situation.

From the look on the vampire’s face, it’s unexpected, but clearly not a dealbreaker. Astarion’s hands are needier now, scratching as he pulls Wyll into a kiss. Wyll’s hands trail to his hips, pulling him flush with his own and the vampire moans. Their touches are almost violent, possessive, breaking apart occasionally to divest with garments.

Astarion is bared beneath him, and even in the moonlight and the dull glow of his wisps, Wyll can count his ribs with ease. He tries not to dwell on it, or consider how little blood is in a rat. Or what it’s like to be close to starved for 200 years.

It’s not difficult to put those thoughts aside when Astarion is pressing as much of his bared self as he can against Wyll. He attempts to unlace Wyll’s britches, but cannot quite get to the threads.

His wishes are very clear. Wyll pauses, breathing heavily as he considers what comes next. “You know, I didn’t really plan this far ahead.”

“Lucky for you, I did,” Astarion drawls, and paws about besides them until his hands land on the fabric in his own trousers, and he deftly pulls a vial out of the pockets which he hands to Wyll.

Clear, viscous fluid lazily shifts within the bottle. It’s smooth on his fingertips. Wyll cocks an eyebrow down at the vampire, who wriggles impatiently.

“What? I purchased it from a goblin merchant, before we killed him. Then I took my money back, so perhaps that makes it posthumous theft? In any case. I thought I had Tav’s... interests figured out, if you must know. As I said, lucky for you.”

“Stop bringing him up,” Wyll warns.

“Then perhaps you should stop flouncing about and make me-“ The vampire bites himself off with a whine, as Wyll pushes slickened fingers into him. Astarion claws at his sides, the tips of his fingers digging into his ribs, until he clings to him, teeth scraping at his collar bone. Wyll moves his hand, slowly. Each thrust pulling his name from between fanged teeth.

Wyll kisses his forehead in approval. White curls tickle his facee. “Hm. That’s a better sound, Astarion. Your babbling was becoming tedi-“ and then his mind flashes painfully as Mizora forces herself to the front of his thoughts.

He reels as his mind twists in on itself and her wings spread over him.

He comes to, on his back in the leaves.

A naked vampire is skulking between his legs. Never mind their current activities; Wyll isn’t sure he’s happy to have those fangs hovering so close to the proverbial family jewels.

“A lady love, left behind in the big city?” Astarion seems delighted by the thought. He saw her too, then. “Ohh, Wyll. That’s scandalous. Will you introduce me to her? I need to thank her for this headache.”

“Mizora.” Wyll shakes his head half to clear it, half to discard Astarion’s suggestions. She wishes even to ruin this ill-suggested thryst. Or maybe he’s the idiot, trading a demon for a beast. “My... patron. The source of my powers.”

He sits up slowly, but the vampire crawls into his lap before he entirely can. A long finger prods his chest, coaxing him to lie down again, but Wyll stubbornly refuses, leaning on his elbows.

Red eyes stare at him, predatory and calculating in a way they were not when Wyll had the blasted thing on the ground. As far as fucking with vampires go, this is a bad position to be in. He considers his knife, tossed an arm’s length away. He can still reach it, if this goes tits up.

Astarion settles his weight more comfortably on Wyll, in a possessive embrace. “Uh uh, no. You had your turn. Clearly you were so bored with yourself, you started taking old demons to bed. Excruciating. Leave those in your nightmares, where they belong.” Meeting Wyll’s eyes through his lashes, the vampire slowly sits up. His finger trails down his chest, curiously tracing some of Wyll’s scars. His touch makes him shivering cold and warm at once. “Why don’t you let someone with... experience take the lead. And then when I am through with you... perhaps you can tell me what manner of dangerous beasts gave you these.”

Wyll blinks. “You? Want to lie about and cuddle for a chit chat?”

With a flustered huff, the vampire sits up straight. “I’m simply curious!”

It’s too easy. Wyll bucks the vampire sideways again. This time it is mostly the surprise which has him sprawling in the moss and leaves, but Wyll pushes his knees aside and positions himself between his legs, before he can claw the advantage back. “I’ll think about it. If you’re a good lad,” he whispers playfully.

“You wily little-” Astarion manages, before Wyll inserts himself. Slowly. They both breathe heavily and Wyll’s hand roams the vampire’s flank, soothing him as he arches his back and moans at the intrusion. He is slick from Wyll’s earlier ministration. His legs wrap around Wyll’s hip, urging the man to hilt himself quicker. The calculating look is gone, leaving only want.

Wyll leans forward as he enters Astarion completely and sets a slow pace, grasping his pale hands to splay the vampire beneath him, kissing his chest, his neck, his face. Smooth and cool like river rock on Wyll’s lips, tight and pulsating around him. The moss and forest flora is soft beneath them. The vampire is flustered; Wyll feels his red-hot want, pleasure, fear, confusion and frustration bleed into his own mind in an overwhelming cacophony, so torn it’s nearly fraying apart. The vampire wants to control this. No, he wants it to continue exactly like this. He wants Wyll to be cruel to him so this will start making sense, and he wants Wyll to continue to treat him gently. He wants to rip and bite and he wants Wyll to think that he is being good and that he deserves to be treated the way he is being treated right now.

Experimentally, Wyll brushes a white curl out of Astarion’s face and his mind quiets a little. “This isn’t how things go for you usually, is it, Astarion?”

“You’re being,” Astarion whimpers, “much too gentle.” He must not realise his mind is bleeding contradictions in every which way. Wyll continues with his slow thrusts. Sweat is beading on his skin, and warmth is building in his belly. He busies the vampire’s mouth with a kiss. He tastes like wine and iron and his hardness, squeezed between their bodies, is leaking wet and sticky on his abdomen.

The vampire is unravelling beneath him. He moans, open mouthed, into the kiss. Wyll feels his tongue against his own and threads his hands through Astarion’s pale hair. Long fingered hands scratch at his sides, but Astarion is sweeter about it than he was at the beginning. More erratic.

He shivers and throws his head back as he comes, Wyll’s name on his lips again. His mind quiets, distracted by the wave of pleasure wracking his body and his extacy sends Wyll likewise over the edge.

They come down, limbs tangled, cushioned by moss. Wyll pushes to move off the vampire, half in bliss, half drunk. Their minds untangle along with their limbs. Wyll’s sweat is cooling on his skin and he can feel his own heart in his chest, beating hard.

Astarion blinks up at the sky, as if suddenly dazzled. His voice is quiet. “The stars are so bright out here.”

“Enjoy yourself?”

“I... think so. It was novel.” He sounds like he means it. And then he shrugs, and rearranges his face smoothly, voice soft and rich as velvet. “We may have to do it again later. To make sure.” He moves to collect his clothing.

Moonlight does not reflect smoothly off Astarion’s back. Wyll glimpses scars, cruel and deliberate in their circular pattern. He frowns, reaches out to touch them, but as soon as he can feel the knotted skin on his fingertips, Astarion twists around and seizes the offending hand. “All is forgiven between us, darling. So don’t,” Astarion squeezes his wrist, “rack up more debts.” His voice is harsh, but lacks venom.

“Thought you wanted to cuddle. I’ll tell you what monsters made my scars, if you tell me what beast made yours,” Wyll offers.

But Astarion is already putting his clothes back on. “Oh, no no no, we are not so close, my dear.”

“Not close? We just made love,” Wyll protests, throwing his hands up in disbelief.

“Darling, we had sex. Because we were both jealous of our respective objects of infatuation. I am sorry if you think that means we’re now betrothed.” Astarion throws Wyll’s trousers at him.

He catches them deftly and pulls them on, watches the vampire frantically dress. “Astarion, I didn’t mean to pry, but your mind, it... when we were together, we connected. Look, there’s no shame in wanting-“

Astarion’s cheeks grow pink and Wyll wonders at the considerable anger or embarrassment it must take to make a creature like this blush. “Listen, that’s very sweet, but you need to understand that once Tav sees sense, frankly... he takes priority! He’s calling the shots, and he’s dangerous and cruel, and I’m not a moron! You two are never going to get along and I’m picking the winning side! This-“ Astarion gesticulates between the two of them. He looks extremely disheveled and there is a wild, desperate look in his eye. “-means nothing!”

“Fine. Just scratching an itch.” Wyll pulls his shirt over his head, and when he looks around himself, Astarion has disappeared into the night, no doubt to drain some defenceless wildlife dry.

It feels sour, it truly does. But it’s ironic, as Wyll reckons this all meant a whole lot more to the vampire than it did to him. At least to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve taken some liberties with describing bodies because Astarion has eaten nothing but rats for 200 years and now he has a six pack? Puh-lease. 
> 
> Wyll... I did my best with Wyll but I feel like I couldn’t trigger his scenes in game like I should, and that I perhaps do not have a great sense of who he is entirely. 
> 
> Pearl Necklace was the working title. I’ve been thinking of new names, might still change it but honestly, it feels right.


	2. Mutiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind some implied physical abuse in this chapter.

“Stay,” Tav says. Like they are dogs.

But stay they do, Astarion and Wyll. They idle outside a hag’s hut while their self appointed leader is in there, with Gale, who he deemed competent enough to tag along. No doubt striking up some kind of ill advised deal with the creature.

Astarion is throwing pebbles down a well. Wyll is fuming about Tav because of course the vampire had been right for once; they do not at all get along.

The vampire is attuned enough to his mind to sense his irritation now. He slowly leans on the edge of the well and turns to Wyll with an eye roll. Sometimes, his movements have the quality of syrup, Wyll thinks. Sweet and slow and sticky. “What?”

Wyll keeps his voice low. Just in case. “All I’m thinking is, who died and put him in charge.”

“Nobody did.” Astarion is wistful. He flicks another pebble into the well. The bloop as it hits the surface of water echoes up at them. “When you’re that powerful, you can just decide to be in charge.”

“Well. There’s five of us and one of him,” Wyll scoffs.

“Oooh, mutiny! You know I am all for dethroning despots, Wyll. What will it be, a hanging? Decapitation?” Astarion is suddenly very invested. He scuttles closer to Wyll, keeping his voice very quiet. His hands trail up his arm, as they have a habit of doing when they speak, lately. “Or do we prefer a subtler approach? I have collected some lovely poisons. A few drops in his wine, and poof... Or I could mix something that makes him vomit himself to death, or shit himself to death... or both?”

Wyll balks at Astarion, pushing his hands off his arm. “Hells, vampire.”

”Dealer’s choice?”

“No, none of those things! All I meant was that our’s group’s decision making could be more... shared.”

Astarion’s face falls. “Ugh. You’re such a bore.” Dissatisfied with the lack of murder in Wyll’s plans, he returns to throwing pebbles into the well. Wyll watches him and wonders if perhaps, once again, the vampire is right.

As the days go by, Tav’s arrogance grows. What was once tolerable pragmatism is becoming callous cruelty. His command over minds grows too, even as his own mind diminishes and cracks under the influence of the tadpole. And he has no regard for the people at his side. Their minds start to fray at the edges. With more and more frequency, they bleed into one another, but Tav has no care for that. Perhaps he never did. Wyll likes the man less and less.

Astarion thought it is all very funny. He fawns over the man and his increasingly cruel actions. Despite Tav sometimes turning his cruelty on the vampire, ravaging what little is left of his dignity. He even finally responds to Astarion’s poorly veiled flirtations, and the day after, bruises bloom darkly on the vampire’s neck.

Wyll can’t pretend he does not care, and it stings to be sneered at in turn when he tries to offer a soothing word or a salve for the bruises. But too much of Astarion’s mind has bled into his consciousness, and he understands. The vampire is trying to survive. He trusts nobody, not even Wyll, and he has nothing to loose.

It does not last long anyway. The next morning, a discussion Wyll does not hear sends Astarion into a rage so frothing, the vampire bares his fangs and launches himself at Tav’s throat, only to be launched across the camp with a mind blast.

Astarion is quick and needle sharp, but Wyll is close enough to snap into action to hold the vampire from pouncing again. Shielding him as Tav advances.

He’s not sure who he is protecting.

Tav sneers down at the both of them. His stare is crushing; Wyll feels, somehow, that this is all his fault, that he should be apologising.

But that’s not right at all.

Tav is snaring their minds with his. Wyll manages to hold his own thoughts steady, barely. He has practice.

“Keep him on a shorter leash.” Tav’s voice is dripping with contempt. His presence is so overpowering, Astarion even stops clawing at Wyll’s arms for a moment. And then Tav leaves, the weight of his mind dissipating.

“I’ll kill him!” The vampire trashes against Wyll. Waves of fear and rage batter the edges of Wyll’s consciousness, but it’s nothing compared to Tav’s earlier onslaught.

“He’ll kill you first, idiot,” Wyll growls back.

The vampire snarls at him, but Wyll can see that he realises the truth of it.

Astarion has not tried Tav on since, anger mollified by his own fear. He swaggers about like nothing is wrong, stays out of their self proclaimed leader’s path. But when he is not hunting at night, he slinks into Wyll’s tent and hides there until daybreak. Wyll doubts it’s sentimental, but he permits it. Feels too sorry for the beast to turn him away. There’s no warmth in his body, but the feeling of skin against skin is nevertheless a welcome one.

And now they are here, outside a hag’s abode, and if Astarion is miffed that he is not allowed to indulge in a spot of murder, Wyll can hardly blame him. They stew in silence for a bit.

“Least it’s nice here. Great spot for a picnic,” Wyll concedes.

Astarion looks up from the well. “What? You think this location is nice?”

“Sure, what’s not to love? Lovely creek. Nice weather. A few critters for you to nibble on. I suppose it’s no dusty crypt, though. If that’s your idea of cozy.”

Astarion regards the sheep that bound about the verdant landscape with a look of utter disgust. “Eugh, no. I am not picking a fight with that.”

“You’ve got too high standards.” Wyll regards the placid landscape appraisingly, ignoring the grimacing vampire. “Apple?”

“Do not eat that. Unless you fancy shitting yourself into an early grave,” Astarion sniffs.

“Jeez,” Wyll raises a brow. But he knows better than to eat food offered by fey, so he nevertheless discards the fruit.

They’re not the only people around; a creature like this hag attracts all sorts of petitioners. Astarion grows bored of throwing pebbles into the well, and strikes up a conversation with a stranger who is fussing with a cart nearby. An odd, tangy smell wafts off his cart. Wyll is half listening to them talk, content to mull on his Tav-related problems. It is no cause for concern; in sunlight and at his best behaviour, Astarion merely seems like a displaced eccentric.

Until the stranger mentions he is hunting a very specific vampire spawn, because of course he is.

Wyll curses inwardly and strolls up to them as casually as possible.

“Did you hear, Wyll? This fellow is hunting a vampire. By the name of, oh, what was it... Astarion? Very dangerous! Lovely name, though.”

“Oh, not quite so dangerous as that. It’s merely a spawn, but it could still pose problems for travellers out on these roads, so I’m hoping to catch him soon.” The stranger finishes lighting his odd incense, and the iron smell renews in the air. Astarion wrinkles his nose and the sheep bleat and pull away. “Had any problems? Seen any strange animal carcasses, perhaps?”

“Hmmm no, no such thing, but if there is indeed a spawn around, we’ll need to be careful. Now, me and you should be going; got some errands to run and daylight’s swiftly waning.”

The hunter nods at them, none the wiser. “Best get that done before the sun disappears, then. You’re safe when the sun is up, but at night, the wily beast will be on the prowl.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Wyll smiles stiffly, and guides Astarion away by the arm. Fortunately for him, the vampire follows with little protest.

“Shouldn’t this threat be taken care of?” The vampire hisses.

“I’m sure the very competent vampire hunter can handle it. Let’s return to camp.”

“What about Tav? He told us to stay put.”

Fuck Tav, Wyll wants to say, but he still isn’t entirely sure Astarion wouldn’t sell him up the river to get back into Tav’s good graces. Disobeying the man is already a very risky gamble. “He can handle himself around an old lady.”

When they are well out of ear shot and back on dry land, Astarion tears away from Wyll with an annoyed sneer. “Is saving hapless idiots from me your new hobby, Blade? Or were you feeling protective of your colleague? Find a less irritating hobby.“

Wyll bristles at that. He is running a risk by leaving Tav, and it is purely Astarion’s fault. “Turns out my new hobby is babysitting you! If I thought we could get away with it, Astarion, I’d gladly let you pick, and finish, your own fights. Think! If that hunter’s got other mates on this job, and they find his corpse, that’ll just confirm their quarry’s here. They’ll swarm the hills. We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck around here when Tav’s not letting us in on his decision-making.”

Astarion scoffs at him, but Wyll can feel his thoughts and uncertainty churning as he stalks off.

Wyll follows him, a few paces behind. “Don’t tell Tav about any of this. I don’t know where his mind’s at.”

Astarion slows down, letting Wyll catch up. “Oh, there’s no danger of that. He does not speak to me unless it is to-” Astarion stops himself.

Wyll feels a wave of queasiness, but it’s not his own.

“Just stick with me, then. All this may be our best bet at a solution to the tadpole, but... we’ll need watch each other’s back.” But Wyll fears Tav, too. His mind is an ever growing dark cloud, looming above the rest of them, threatening to pull them in.

-

When Tav returns to camp, he is very angry. They can feel his mind, before they hear the rustle of his footsteps. A pall falls over the campsite. Shadowheart returns to her tent, quietly. Lae’zel stands up, with a keen eye trained on the camp’s entrance.

Wyll is putting together a stew out of their rations and a couple of hares the vampire has snared at his request. The vampire has no appetite for vegetables, but when they feel the pressure of Tav’s mind, he slinks close to Wyll as if he is suddenly very interested in the process of peeling tubers.

Tav looks worse for wear, and so does Gale. A bad fight has gone down, and they were left without backup. Wyll curses inwardly; this is probably the worst scenario he could have imagined. The wizard shoots them a warning glance, before he disappears to tend to himself.

“Where were you?” Tav asks flatly. He hardly sounds human anymore. His voice echoes in their minds. He does not elaborate, and he does not need to; as his voice reverberates in their minds they understand that they are cowards and traitors.

“We stayed about, as you told us to. Then we got into a spot of trouble and thought it was wiser to retreat and regroup,” Wyll stirs the stew. His hands shake. He maintains a light tone. Don’t give him a reason to pry them open; he does not think he’ll be able to resist the strength of his mind, anymore.

Tav folds his arms. His stare is cold. It invites them to wilt and grovel. They should be ashamed of themselves. “What sort of trouble?” Tav probes.

“Redcaps,” Astarion smiles. Sticky-sweet.

It’s so off the wall, Wyll nearly makes a face. But Tav just watches them, scoffs, and leaves.

-

The next morning, Wyll wakes alone. The vampire is not in his own tent. Not in camp at all. The others have not seen him. Tav does not even acknowledge the question.

Wyll’s temper flares hot even as his belly grows ice cold.

“What did you do?”

Tav finally gives him a cold, pitying look. “I saved you. Creatures like that do not feel affection, you know. But they are masterful manipulators. You were easy prey, I suspect; a gullible idiot with a hero complex. An opportunity came up, so I took it. Be grateful. For all of us, but particularly for yourself.”

Clarity stings. The hunter in the marsh. Wyll should have let Astarion kill him. “You sold him.” He must have. Tav does not give things up freely. 

“Just so. We need provisions, if we’re to survive the overland route.”

“The overland route? When was this decided? We’ll go insane!”

“I can handle it.”

“And the rest of us?”

Tav scoffs. He does not care about that.

Wyll packs his things in a hurry. Astarion’s things, too; some knives, and some lockpicks. Potions, poisons. As he bundles these things together in Astarion’s pack, he finds gems, hidden away at the bottom. Wrapped in simple cloth so that they do not clink; the vampire’s paranoid secrecy may be their saving grace, if they get into a pinch where money could buy them out. He leaves them where they are. If squirrelling away precious stones makes Astarion feel better, Wyll won’t be the one to take that away. Especially not now.

Even as he leaves, he knows he is forgetting things. His mind is numb with worry. But he’s scraped survival together from little before; he can do it again.

He follows the road to Baldur’s Gate, glad for once for the sorry state of it. A hunter lugging an unwilling vampire spawn cannot be travelling particularly fast along this route.

His mind feels numb. He should be hunting Mizora. Not a skinny, difficult vampire. 

There’s a crack and then Gale is suddenly behind him. “You know, it would be very bad for a lot of people if I went mad, and I’m getting the distinct impression you’re not planning on following the overland route. Or returning to Tav, who, frankly, is becoming disturbing. So... What’s your plan?”

“Find the fucking vampire. Fumble through the fucking Underdark. Get to that fucking tower. Figure out what in the hells is going on.” He leaves out Mizora, but he will deal with that too. It’s none of Gale’s business.

“There’s a little detour at the start there, to be sure, but it’s a better plan than Tav’s.”

Wyll shakes his head. “Maybe I really do have a hero complex, like Tav says, but I’m not leaving Astarion in the lurch.”

The wizard falls into step at his side. “I can make a guess at your motivations. Nevertheless I think we have a better chance at surviving this together. I’m coming with you instead; Tav can brave the Shadow Curse, if he wishes.”

“Glad to have you along,” Wyll says, but he keeps his eyes on the road up ahead.


	3. Alone

It’s a very good time for introspection. 

Astarion can be completely honest with himself. After all, there is no one else around and he is stuck in a very cramped cage, on a cart tethered to a nervous donkey, on a dirt road cresting a cliff at the bottom of which a river flows.

Really. There isn’t much to do, besides ruminate.

The key to his cage is annoyingly close. It sits in the coat pocket of a corpse which lies in the dirt just out of his reach, leaking blood from its torn jugular.

He taps his fingers on the bars and concludes he is very out of practice when it comes to thinking more than one step ahead.

The more efficient way about it would have been to make the Gur release him, and THEN kill him, of course. Instead, the moment the worm in his head breached the Gur’s mental defenses, Astarion had simply wasted that control by beckoning him closer and ripping apart what he could reach. Only when the corpse was a crumpled, leaky heap, much too far out of his reach, had he realised that his plan had room for improvement.

So. To summarise. Key in pocket, pocket on shirt, shirt on corpse and the corpse is on the road, and he is up here, on a cart, locked in a cage. Think. Think. Think.

His knees are going numb. He shifts a little.

When he gets out of here, the first thing he is going to do is hunt down his so called friends and slit their throats for tricking him-

No. That thought is running too far ahead. Too painful. Even Wyll? Even Wyll. Of course; he’s a beast hunter, he protected the Gur, probably even works with the shitting Gur. Something wrenches and hurts like hell in his sleeping heart. Even Wyll. Stupid. Focus on the task at hand. He is very, very clever and he will get out of this. On his own. But Wyll? Truly? Yes. Now, think of something else.

He has no lockpick on him, no dagger, no other sharp, long little thing; the hunter was very careful to disarm him while he was unconscious. He’ll need to get down to the corpse. Somehow. If he shifts his weight in the cage, he can perhaps tip the whole thing over and send himself crashing into the ground. From there, he can scrape his way over to the corpse. Get the key. Escape. Kill everyone.

Easy.

He considers very carefully the ways this could go wrong. After all, he wouldn’t be here if he had not already acted a bit rash. But it’s a good plan. Unless the donkey starts to panic. Or perhaps unless jostling the cage makes the brakes on the cart release. Perhaps there are remaining gnolls, and his making a racket will alert them to the presence of a packed, vampiric lunch. And perhaps if he is very unlucky, he’ll fall too far and go tumbling down the cliff. If he survives that, he’ll live long enough to feel himself slowly disintegrate in the river. That won’t do. He is much too busy to die like that.

He is still deliberating, when he hears running footsteps, and then a familiar voice.

“Hells, Astarion, I am not a praying man, but I am happy to see you. I thought you’d be much further up the road by now.”

“Wyll.” For a moment, Astarion is happy. Wyll came for him. Then his thoughts are disintegrated by rage. Wyll sold him out, they all sold him out and it hurt. Even Wyll. It hurts.

“Look at that, got your way and killed him after all,” Wyll states, matter of factly. He’s standing over the hunter’s corpse. Astarion will tear his throat out, too; they can bleed out together, two monster-hunting peas in a stupid, stupid pod. “Guess that explains the stand-still.”

“The corpse has the key. Let me out. Please.” He cannot keep his voice from dipping into a guttural growl, which makes Wyll pause. No no no. They’re here to finish the job. But Wyll finds the key in the pocket and approaches the cage. Stupid man. Come here. Come here and die.

Wyll hesitates again. He lowers his voice, meets Astarion’s eyes. “Astarion... Heeey, friend. If we were to blame for this, we wouldn’t have come back for you. Be calm, all right?”

“He really does not look calm, Wyll.” The rotten wizard. Astarion was so pre-occupied with Wyll, he had not seen him. But he should have smelled him. Astarion will not bite him; he will push him down the cliff. “Perhaps it would be wiser to leave him in there until he settles down.”

Wyll takes a longer look at him. His expression furrows. Astarion realises he has bared his fangs, and closes his jaw with a clack. It’s a shame to have to kill Wyll, really; Astarion does enjoy looking at him. His body smells a bit of sweat and musk and leather. His blood smells sweet.

Wyll’s eyes are worried, deliberating on something. He turns to Gale. No. Astarion shoves at the latch, frustrated. The metallic clang reverberates around him as the door rattles on its hinges. “If you were an angry vampire crammed into a cage, and your would-be rescuers refused to let you out until you behaved, would you calm down?”

“Probably not. But there’s probably... some solution. A poison to just dull him down a bit? Alcohol? I’m sure I can think of something.” Even from over there, Gale smells off-putting. If Astarion had a bow, he’d prefer to shoot him, he thinks. Maybe acid, to make sure there’s nothing left of him.

“We don’t have time.” Wyll breathes in, and out, deeply. It’ll be the last time he does that. “Astarion. Look at me. We didn’t want this. Tav acted on his own. We’re here to rescue you. Alright? If you come out all nice and easy, I’ll even let you poke about in my mind, and you can see for yourself. You’ll see it’s all true.”

“We will see.” Astarion does not manage to keep the poison out of his voice. But he does not need to see; he already knows the truth. He won’t let Wyll trick him again.

“Whatever happens, Gale, give me a chance to handle it.” Wyll turns the key, and the cage latch opens with a whine.

Like a loaded spring, Astarion launches from the cage and takes Wyll down with him, pinning him to the ground. But Wyll is ready. He shouts a curse and Astarion’s limbs feel feeble, all of a sudden. The warlock clamps his hand on Astarion’s throat just in time to keep razor sharp teeth from connecting with his skin, and tumbles them both around. He’s on the ground, beneath Wyll’s well muscled shape again. His weight bears down on Astarion and he pins one hand with a knee. Astarion snaps and twists, inwardly cursing Cazador for feeding him vermin for two centuries; he is so weak now, and the man above him is too strong. Wyll’s fingers dig into the flesh under his jaw so he can only snarl uselessly at the air, failing to connect his teeth to anything, and when Astarion tries to swipe at him with his free hand, Wyll pins that one, too.

Anger and fear clouds his thinking, and he screams. Then weeps. Wyll will let him go, if he thinks he is hurting him. He would, he would, Astarion feels sure.

But Wyll does not let go. Wyll is shushing him. How dare he. His voice is soft and coaxing. Astarion does not pay any mind to the words. How dare he speak to him like he is a spooked animal? Astarion lashes out again with the only weapon he has left, this time forcing his mind into Wyll’s, but there’s no resistance. He feels the crackle of Gale summoning lightning behind him, but his mind is already scurrying into the underbrush of Wyll’s consciousness. Dimly aware, he is raising a hand; no, Wyll raises a hand, to signal the wizard to hold his fire.

“It’s alright. You’ll see it’s all true.”

Astarion tears through Wyll’s mind like he is looking for a ring Cazador asked for three minutes ago and he will be flayed if he does not find it NOW-

He does not find what he thinks he will. He finds a demon woman. Finds her a lot. He remembers her from his night with Wyll. He finds shitty memories, good memories, violent memories. He watches glimpses of them and scurries off to the next trinket. Wyll is trying to lead him somewhere, and sometimes he follows. Sometimes he darts off in a different direction. Then he finds himself. He peers at that memory a little closer.

He recognises Wyll’s tent first. He feels what it’s like to be Wyll. He has a heartbeat; slow in his chest as he dozes. He is warm. His rest is momentarily disturbed as a chill body settles next to him, a slender, long fingered hand curling into his rough palm. He feels the other hand card through soft, white curls. His mind is bemused; he is protecting a monster. What an ironic twist of fate.

He watches his own face, he thinks; it’s been a long time since he has seen it. Feels cold fingertips trail the patterns of scars along Wyll’s face and neck. He loves those scars, harsh and hard on soft skin. But it’s not what he needs to see; he bats it aside and is distracted by what catches his eyes next.

They are even more intimately entwined, his own body beneath Wyll’s, breathing out his name over and over as Wyll fucks him with his fingers. Gentle, despite Astarion’s goading. He stays in that memory long enough to watch himself try to steer them into more familiar territory, only for Wyll to take back control and enter him. He feels the mix of emotions Wyll experiences, as his own body writhes wantonly beneath him. Pleasure. Rebellion. Satisfaction.

They haven’t had sex since then, just touched a little. There has never been a good time. Astarion sets the memory aside, carefully. It is like moving a crystalline bowl of clear water. He tries not to create ripples. His own thoughts are clearer. He looks about himself and examines the thoughts Wyll is trying to guide him to.

Tav is there, cold, the undercurrent of his mind sweeping them all alongside his thoughts. They should be grateful he got rid of the vampire. Astarion sneers, but this is what Wyll wants him to watch. It was Tav, and just Tav.

‘You sold him.’ Wyll is angry and scared. It distorts the whole scene. But his anger is rooted in something else. Suddenly disinterested in Tav, Astarion traces that emotion, carefully, like one of Wyll’s scars. It’s complex. It’s layered with doubt and contradictions. But it feels warm, and it’s centred in him.

Wyll didn’t know. Wyll has not betrayed him. Wyll, in fact, cares for him.

Weight shifts off him as he’s gently scooped back into his own mind. When he opens his eyes, Wyll is sitting on his knees next to him, breathing heavily.

Gale exhales loudly. The air smells sharp as lightning dissipates about his fingers. “Well. That was all very tense.”

Astarion wants to be back in Wyll’s tent, so Wyll wild hold him. But he asks for nothing as he sits up. Lurches a little to the side with dizziness. Wyll is watching him with tired eyes and Astarion suddenly feels very self conscious. “You really took your sweet long time before you came to rescue me, Blade.”

Wyll half scoffs, half laughs, and pushes Astarion’s shoulder lightly. “Had to make it eventful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed trying to write this from Astarion's perspective. His mind, I think, is messy, impulsive and reactive so there's a lot of room for fun, stupid thoughts.


	4. Leaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter, but it kinda got away from me so I split it into 2. So one more to go. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your love and support on this thing, it’s really made my week (‘:

They free the donkey from its cart and bundle their things onto its saddlebags instead. It’s a skittish animal, but Wyll can hardly blame her. Gale is wrangling her, with passing success.

As they trudge along the gravel paths to the previously goblin-infested temple, Astarion’s mood swings erratically and quickly. Wyll can hardly blame him either; waking up locked in a cage is likely to leave anyone feeling some sort of way.

It does nothing to alleviate his headache, however. Astarion was not delicate while tearing through his mind, and now a dull pain throbs behind his eyes.

The vampire offers no direct apologies for nearly murdering him, or for all the rest, but he trails after Wyll like he has something on his mind. Brushes against his hand on occasion. It’d be easy to push in, to see his thoughts without subtleties and veiled words. Astarion’s presence is tethered to his mind now and he could but follow that thread to see everything.

But Wyll leaves him be, and tries to tune out the rapid rush of his feelings. 

They descend to the depths of Selune’s temple with no incidents. Tav was a thorough murderer of goblins, and that, at least, Wyll could appreciate about the man.

Astarion has walked a bit ahead as Gale and Wyll coax the donkey down some steps, when Wyll feels a cold wash of fear, and hears the creak of a bow as the vampire nocks an arrow. He is at the bottom of the steps, aiming around the corner at something Wyll cannot see. His hand moves to his sword.

“Don’t move, dear,” he purrs. “Or do. I have not murdered quite as many people as I’d prefer today and honestly, pickings seem slim down here. Is our darling friend Tav around?”

Then he hears Shadowheart’s voice and for a moment his heart jumps into his throat; Tav has changed his mind, Tav has pursued them.

But she puts them all at ease. “Tav is not here. I wasn’t about to follow him and the lizard to their certain doom. Glad to see you, Astarion. Considerably un-staked, but otherwise you look... awful.”

“Thank you. And you look boring, as always.”

“Put that down now. You know I’ll smite you.”

Astarion does not, immediately; he looks to Wyll. Wyll looks back at him, confused. “Well? Lower your bow, mate.”

They reconvene in an open chamber, vaulted ceiling high above them. Circles of moons in erratic patterns beneath their feet.

Shadowheart turns her eyes to Gale, giving him a baleful stare. “You could have told me you were running off, Gale.”

“Ah. Frankly, I did not know whose side you were on. But it’s nice to see my suspicions were wrong, and I apologise.” The wizard inclines his head at her.

“Well, for future consideration; I’m on my own side.”

“Be that as it may, we could pool our resources. We still have the same goal,” Wyll interjects. It would be handy to have a cleric onboard.

Astarion, presumably bored with the lack of murders happening, squats to investigate a groove in the floor. The floors beneath them starts to move in a lazy circle, and Gale, stood on the spinning plate, steps back with alarm.

“Can you not touch things you don’t know what are, for once?”

“You wanted to find the path to the Underdark? It’s a puzzle. And I found it for you. You’re welcome.”

“Aha! So it is!” All touching of unknown things forgotten, Gale moves to investigate the floor. Wyll and Shadowheart step back, attempting to decipher the pattern as well. Astarion trails off, as if his contribution here is done.

“So perhaps the moon should be organised by phases?” Gale suggests.

“No, look. There’s light here, so the lit moons should be here...” Shadowheart points.

“Maybe there’s a clue nearby,” Wyll muses.

They devolve into arguing about it until a click resounds in the cavernous rooms, and the moons spin again before they lock into position. The wall slides open to reveal a long, long staircase.

Astarion grins at them, perched on a pedestal. He withdraws his lock picks from a hidden mechanism, slid slightly ajar. Smug satisfaction radiates from him. “Shitty lock, really. I’ve seen much more complicated things attached to chests of underthings.”

Gale takes a deep breath. “And you felt very sure that the mechanism would merely open the door before you started fiddling with it, as opposed to, say, releasing toxic fumes or slabs of rocks from the ceiling?”

“No.”

“Astarion.”

“Whaaat! I opened the door! Stop your griping. Honestly. Now go on through, preferably before your short, short lifespans end.”

Wyll pats Gale’s shoulder sympathetically. As they all pass through safely, Astarion deftly reverses the mechanism and quickly ducks under the door to join them, before it slams shut, engulfing them in darkness.

Wyll summons a wisp of light.

Gale puts his hands up, exasperated, and Astarion rolls his eyes at him, equally exasperated.

“Now what, Gale? Now we can’t be followed.”

“Now we can’t get out!”

“So? This is the way to the Underdark, which is where we wanted to go.”

“And if we get stuck?”

“Well, you should have said something about that earlier!”

“You did not say you were planning to shut us in!“

“Okay, okay,” Wyll steps in. The vampire’s irritation is fanning into anger, and they do not need an altercation while stuck at the top of a dark, narrow, steep stair. “Why don’t you and Shadowheart go scout ahead, Gale? Astarion and I will coax the donkey down the stairs.”

“He’ll eat the bloody donkey while you’re not looking!” Gale gestures at Astarion sharply.

“Only because you like the donkey so much,” Astarion fumes.

“Fine. You two deal with the donkey, and Astarion and I can scout ahead.”

Astarion blows raspberries at Gale, so Wyll grabs his arm and pulls him along because he absolutely does not need, or want, to see how low Astarion can manage to drag an argument.

As they leave, he hears Shadowheart comment drily. “I honestly wish you’d all gotten lost.”

As they descend the stairs, Wyll’s wisps of light casting erratic shadows around them, Wyll takes a deep breath. “Look, Gale has a point.”

Astarion scoffs at him.

“And you also have a point, Astarion. Tav might try to follow us; we don’t know. But perhaps, in the future, if you have an idea, we should discuss it together. As a group. Before you do anything that impacts all of us.”

Astarion glares at him, then folds his arms and looks away. “Fine.”

“Really?” Wyll can’t help but be nonplussed by his easy acceptance.

“Yes, fine! Now let’s go so we can prove to Gale we’re not stuck.”

They are not stuck. They emerge in an even more dilapidated temple, the architecture more resembling a stronghold. There’s furniture, but it is so old and rotted that when Wyll tries to sit on a chair, the entire thing collapses and he falls on his ass. Astarion laughs at him.

When Shadowheart and Gale catch up with the donkey, they light a brazier for warmth, and decide to take a rest here. It’s well fortified, and the road ahead dark and uncertain.

Gale goes about assembling a soup, while Shadowheart and Wyll take stock of their supplies. By no means is it the considerable wealth of tools and sundries they’ve left Tav with, but they’ll survive.

Fortunately for all of them, Gale and Shadowheart were somewhat more sensible as they packed their things. With what they’ve got stashed away, and the rations from the Gur, they have enough for a few good meals. Well considered, as nobody trusts the brightly glowing mushrooms they can see beyond the gates.

Gale stirs the last of the chopped vegetables into the soup, and claps his hands together. “Right. Now that we have a moment, Astarion. I want to teach you some exercises for keeping people out of your head, if that’s agreeable to you.”

The vampire narrows his eyes at the wizard. “Why?”

“Because your mind is leaking like a sieve? Tav used the tadpole excessively. All our minds are a little bit frayed at the edges now. I sense Shadowheart and Wyll only occasionally, but you’ve never had a reason to guard your mind, I suspect.”

“You know, Gale, I never sense you at all,” Wyll realises.

Gale holds up a finger and gesticulates in the air. “A wizard’s most precious treasure is his mind. The apprentice must learn this quickly, or suffer the consequences.”

“Uuugh, vomit-inducing. I don’t feel like being lectured right now.” Astarion drinks deeply of his wine. “Or ever.”

“Ah, you’re a practical learner. That’s fine, we can do this hands on. Or minds on, as the case might be.”

“I have not agreed to this.” The vampire is getting irritated.

“I, for one, would LOVE to think without having to push aside your wailing and gnashing of teeth, Astarion,” Shadowheart chimes in.

Wyll puts a hand on Astarion’s knee. The vampire twitches, but does not pull away. “Look, it’s not your fault. Tav was reckless and we’re having to deal with the side effects. But you’re making my headache that much worse, and you owe me. So... do it.”

“You’re ganging up on me,” Astarion sulks, but he is mollified. “Fine! Fine. Go ahead.”

“Excellent!” Gale claps his hands together. Wyll wonders if he is pleased because lecturing simply gives him a sense of normality. Even if his student is a reluctant vampire and their classroom is an underground, derelict temple. “Now, think of something I don’t know.”

Astarion’s brows furrow slightly. Wyll already knows where this is going and is about to interject, when Gale drops the ladle into the soup with a start. Astarion’s expression shifts to smug satisfaction. “Right. You know, that was entirely predictable, and that’s on me. Let’s try something more pleasant, as I rather do enjoy my occasional tadpole-free dreams not being nightmares. How about... you think of a colour?” A split second passes. “Red. Think of another. Blue. So you see, with just the slightest push, it’s very easy for us to tap into your thoughts right now. Another colour, please. Care to guess, Wyll?”

Gale is right; a simple prod and the colour bleeds out, like from a toppled goblet. “Red again,” Wyll says. “But more of a wine hue.”

Astarion gives him a put upon sigh. “It’s burgundy, you uncultured buffoon.”

Gale moves them on. “Another colour, Astarion. Shadowheart?”

She taps her chin. “Green. Like poison.”

“Fine! I get it!” Astarion throws his hands up. “Anyway, we’ve ran out of colours.”

“Now, I shall think of a colour, and you’ll try to figure out which one it is.” Gale sits back expectantly.

“Hmmm... Piss yellow?”

“Veeery funny. You’re simply guessing.”

The vampire pulls his knees up and leans on them with a shrug. Wyll suspects he is not trying very hard. Doesn’t like to play games he can’t win. “Maybe I’m colourblind? It looks like piss yellow to me.”

“Why don’t you two try,” Gale suggests, gesturing at Wyll and Shadowheart.

They both try. Wyll can feel her, a shade at his periphery, but Gale’s mind is a fortress wall, tall and without cracks. He shakes his head. “I can’t guess at all.”

“And that’s the point.” Wyll taps the ladle on the edge of the pot and then points at Astarion with it. “Right now, your mind is soup, flowing free of any cauldron.”

“Gee, thanks. I hope it doesn’t have any bits of disgusting carrot in it.”

“Carrots, onions, peas, chunks of gristle and all, Astarion. Completely unrestrained. With a few exercises, you should be able to strengthen your mental soup cauldron, so to speak. It keeps others out of your mind, and it will also keep your mind from spilling into ours. Over time, if you keep doing exercises, you should be able to put a lid on your thoughts entirely, and make it quite hard to pry that lid off, too.”

“Guess my colour,” Shadowheart challenges them.

If Gale’s thoughts are like a sheer wall, Shadowheart’s is a dark labyrinth. “Hmm... Lilac. That was difficult!” Wyll taps Astarion’s elbow. “Try me. You know you can get in there.”

Astarion’s eyes glide to him lazily. Wyll does not feel him prying at all and wonders if he’s making it too difficult... until Astarion’s mind pounces on his, like a lurking hunting cat, snatching his prize. They share a vision of sunlight upon lush meadows. The vampire smiles, unguarded for a split second. “Green. Like sunny grass.”

“Chartreuse, vampire. Where’s your sense of nuance?”

“Oh, please. If that was chartreuse, then I am a gnoll.”

Wyll leans closer to Astarion, making a show of studying his features. “Hmm, well. A sweet, stray pup, but not a gnoll.”

“Keep your doe-eyed nothings to yourself over the dinner pot, lest I loose my appetite.” Shadowheart’s nostrils flare. 

Gale walks them through some exercises as the soup boils, and in the end it’s not just Astarion who ends up learning something. Maybe that’s what Gale intended all along; Shadowheart is secretive and does not enjoy being the center of attention. Wyll, perhaps, can admit that he is sometimes too proud to accept help. And they are all a little wary, now, after Tav...

Gale ladles soup into bowls and passes them out with hard bread. Wyll cannot recall that they have ever sat like this, close together in a circle, even if it is just for warmth. Enjoying the company of one another. The ground may be weighing down on them from above, but the relief shared between them is still palpable. Perhaps that is the worm.

Astarion makes a face at his bowl. The soup does indeed have bits of carrot in it. “Can I not just eat the donkey?”

“Nnno? We need Mister Brays,” Gale chides.

“Ugh! You named it!”

There’s a bit of precious privacy to be had, in this dusty old temple, and so they opt to sleep in different rooms. Frankly, Wyll thinks it would be safer to sleep together, but Shadowheart and Gale are both keen on alone-time.

And anyway, the vampire joins him when he sets his bedroll up in a little nook. They settle in to rest together, Astarion pressed against his side, but as Wyll drifts off, he is snapped back to wakefulness as Astarion’s hands roam intimately over his scars, his face pressed into the crook of Wyll’s neck. It’s not an unusual position for them, but Wyll can sense his need.

“Astarion, you’re lovely and, gods above, I’d love to, but I am so, so very tired. Maybe in the morning.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Astarion trails fingers down his chest, placing cold kisses on his belly, lower and lower until he brushes against Wyll’s trail of pubic hair. The sensation sends tingles up his spine. “Allow me to properly thank you.”

Much too close for comfort. Wyll pulls his blanket over himself and turns away. “Go to sleep, or whatever it is you do. I’m not letting your fangs near my dick, vampire.”

The vampire shifts away from him. “Well, that’s dull. Were not you aroused, when you had me on my back in the dirt earlier today?”

Wyll snorts. “You were trying your damnest to kill me, so... no?”

“No? Did it not make your blood rush? Did you not want to... impale me, so to speak? Like our first night? You like that I am a dangerous beast, and yet you can best me. You prefer controlling me to killing me. Are you practicing for someone else? Your infernal lady, perhaps?”

Wyll sits up, watches the vampire carefully. It would seem he is capable of skulking around in his mind without him noticing. It should not be a surprise, nor disappointing, but it is.

“Look. My feelings about you are conflicted, but you can’t just poke about in my mind and pick and choose the impressions that make the most sense to you. Don’t go digging in my mind again. It’s wrong, and it clearly doesn’t help you settle your fears.”

The vampire scoffs at him. “You tell me what to do. You love it when I obey. What would you do if I didn’t?”

“Astarion, I am helping you!” Wyll grabs Astarion by the shoulders, shakes him gently. “Would you be better off alone? Would it be better for you if Gale left because you keep upsetting him? Is it better for you if your mind stays open to any shit stain who wants to take a look? Astarion, I’ll let this go. I know you’re just scared. Just... stop. Don’t read my mind again unless I give you permission.”

The vampire pushes him off and gets on his feet, as if to leave. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Where are you going to go, Astarion? You want to go hang out with Gale? You going to climb up and down the stairs all night? We’re stuck here in this little temple and you may as well hear me out.” The vampire nevertheless makes for the door. Then stops, realising that Wyll is right, and he paces the room angrily like a prowling wolf instead. “I already know your thoughts. You want me to be hard on you. You want me to take things from you and to be cruel, because anything else confuses you. Yet you’re scared those things will happen, so you pry into my mind.”

“Then how do I know? What do you want from me?” Astarion’s voice carries his usual aloofness, but there’s despair there, too.

“I...” Wyll rubs his face. His brain is still hammering; if Astarion has indeed been quietly snooping about in there all day, then that makes complete sense. “I want you to just ask. If you’re unsure about something, just ask me.”

“So you can lie to me? Do you think I am stupid? You would never tell me these things.”

This is going to drag on, but Astarion is here. He is listening. Wyll summons a few dancing lights. They bob around them, slowly. “It’s not lying, allright? It lets me choose what thought and feeling to act on. We can think things that are wrong, or awful. What matters is what we do with those thoughts.”

“But you said you feel conflicted. What if you change your mind, later?”

“If you ask me something I feel conflicted about, I’ll tell you. I promise. I’m not scared of you, or of hurting your understandably high-strung feelings. Can we just... go to sleep now?”

The vampire is quiet. Wyll watches him with bleary eyes as he slinks back onto his bedroll. “Can I ask a couple of questions first? Just... a couple.”

“Fine. Sure. Go ahead.” 

“You are very kind, and I do not mean that in a complimentary way. Why drag me along with you?”

“I think you can be reasoned with. I think you can be shown a better path, yet. I don’t think you deserve whatever would have befallen you.”

“That’s stupid and naive. I have been a terrible creature for much, much longer than you have been alive.”

“That’s true.” Wyll lies down again, propping his head up on his elbow. He is so tired. A few weeks ago, if anyone had told him he’d be laying in the dark trying to have an argument with a vampire spawn, he would have laughed heartily at them. “Tav told me I have a hero complex.”

Astarion mirrors him; he lies down, props his own head on his hands. “Why won’t you trust me? I won’t bite you... Unless you ask it.”

Wyll sighs. “I don’t know. I’ll keep it in mind and try to trust you’ll keep your fangs away. I think that’s fair, same as I ask you to trust me to tell you the truth.”

Astarion nods. “What are we? Are we lovers? When all of this worm business is done... can I still come with you?”

That’s hard. Wyll rolls onto his back, and stares at the ceiling. “I can’t truly answer that. Not until I’ve dealt with Mizora. But... I care about you a lot. I’d like you to stay with me. We could be the blade of the frontiers, and the beautiful, fanged beast at his side who hunts down other beasts. It would be quite the legend!”

“Then I’ll kill her for you. Then we kill Cazador. Then we do that.” Astarion’s eyes shine with excitement in the dark. He does not care for heroics, but the prospect of murder, at least, entices him. Wyll can’t help the slight smile on his lips, and he leans in to give Astarion a kiss.

“If it comes to it, let me decide what to do with Mizora. Can I ask a question now?”

The vampire shrugs, and nods slightly.

“Did you and Tav sleep together?”

“What? Oh, that. No, he just slapped me around a little. Maybe he’d have gotten around to it, but frankly, I didn’t feel like sticking the event out. I made my exit as soon as he gave me a bit of leeway.” Astarion scoffs as if this was simply a slight bother.

“Hells, Astarion. You should have told me.”

“Why? What, pray tell, was there to be done about it?”

Wyll does not rightly know. Would he have whisked the vampire away? He does not think Astarion would have followed him, if Tav had not so thoroughly discarded him as to sell him to the Gur.

“You can keep your pity to yourself. For me, it was nothing but an insult. I am exquisite and he should be enjoying me as I present myself.” The vampire is preening. Then he turns to Wyll with a glower. “As should you, to be honest.”

“I am. Trust that I am,” Wyll yawns. His eyes flutter shut, and he falls asleep soon after, as Astarion settles down next to him again and curls his fingers into Wyll’s, exploring how they lock together.


	5. Indulgence

The tower is eerie in the glow of the mushrooms, and strange contraptions click and scrape on the path ahead. Wyll rubs his forehead as the vampire affects poisonously sweet, pretend-hurt in reply to Gale’s concerns. Yet again.

“You do not think that I am capable? Gale, I am wounded.” Astarion places a long-fingered hand on his heart.

“Oh no, I fear you are! Who knows what relics a cleric of Mystra has laying about? Very dangerous in the hand of someone incompetent, and you have the impulse control of a gnoll in a sheep pen, Astarion. You’ll get yourself turned into a toad.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to do the honours, Gale?” Wyll bows at the path ahead, heavily guarded by magical contraptions. “Maybe you have some spells to get you past the deathly machinery.”

“Yes, dazzle us with your competence,” the vampire drawls. Wyll does not mean to sound goading, but with Astarion draped over the parapet behind him providing sarcastic commentary, it is difficult to convey a different impression.

The wizard eyes the crumbling tower looming over them with a mix of curiosity and annoyance.

“It’d be very bad for all of us-“

“If you died. Yes.”

Wyll locks eyes with Shadowheart, who throws her hands up. “Don’t look at me! I don’t plan on getting shot!”

Wyll turns to consider the vampire. Astarion tilts his head at him and stares back, as if awaiting more criticism. Gale is not wrong; Astarion is sticky fingered and impulsive. But he is also prideful and contrarian. Wyll sighs. “I’ll admit when I’m out of my depth. So. That leaves us with you. If you could just... try not to touch anything...”

“It is not hard! You said you would trust me.” Unlike Astarion’s earlier affectations, this time he truly sounds a little sore.

“I said I’d trust you in... other matters. Not on whether or not you can keep your hands off the shiny and the curious. That, I would not bet even a penny on.”

“I am not a gnome, driven by the twinkle of trinkets! I won’t touch a thing more than necessary!” 

“Fine, I believe you!” Wyll’s placating tone betrays that he very much does not. “And if the cleric is home, please, be polite.”

The vampire sneers and bounds off into the shadows, eerily quiet. It only takes a few seconds for Wyll to loose track of him. The strange machines do not stir at all.

The wizard sighs and starts rooting around in his pack. “I shall ready some invisibility spells for when he inevitably gets into trouble. I don’t have the energy to channel as much magic as I used to...”

Wyll keeps his voice low. “He won’t get into trouble. He’s impulsive when he’s got no reason not to be. Now? Toothy little beast’s keen to prove us wrong.”

Shadowheart sits down on the cold stone floor to rest, watching the path behind them. “When you two started getting cosy, I was worried you were in over your head. Glad to see you’ve got a bit of a handle on him.”

“That is indeed a relief.” Gale unrolls a scroll and looks it over, before his eyes flick to Gale. “I may be out of order, but... you do realise he spent a fair bit of our walk yesterday poking about in your head?”

“He let as much slip.”

“And you’re fine with that? Even with the history between you two, that seems...”

Of course it’s not fine. But, as with so many other things where Astarion is concerned, Wyll lets his resentment slip. He frowns for a moment, to consider the darkness, then his companions. “We had a talk. There’s a limit to how much you can expect from a vampire spawn, as far as social graces are concerned, but I think he can be shown a lighter path.”

Shadowheart scoffs. “How loyal of you, puppy. I hope he returns the investment.” 

The tower hums, almost as if alive, just as the machines on the pathway fold themselves away, into non-threatening little metallic bumps in the path. Light climbs up the tower, floor by floor.

Astarion opens the door with an exaggerated flourish, welcoming them inside the tower. “Not a speck of dust out of place, my dears.”

While the thick carpet of dust does remain settled, the tower is in disarray. Wyll does not need the vampire to tell him that the cleric is not home, though Astarion glibly informs him anyway. “But if she were, I was very prepared to be extremely polite about breaking into her house via her conveniently broken window, which I did not break, because it was already broken,” he clarifies standoffishly. He expects to be challenged and he wants to be praised. Despite his best efforts, his feelings still occasionally bleed through into Wyll’s mind like a pebble clattering every which ways in the turning of his own thoughts.

Wyll claps his shoulder lightly. “Well done.”

The vampire beams at him for a moment, before his face falls into a more controlled smirk. “Of course. Was there really ever any doubt?”

“We should not act too familiar... This cleric may be home any moment.” Gale is inspecting a bookshelf with rapt interest. The spines are covered in a thick layer of dust. He seems very much like he’d want to get familiar with the books.

Shadowheart picks up a cup from a table. If there was ever liquid in it, it has long since evaporated and dried into a dusty crust at the bottom. “Little danger of that. I don’t think anyone’s been here for a long while...” She sits in one of the stuffed arm chairs and lets out a little groan. “Oh, the comforts of a civilised society...”

“Ah, well...” Gale carefully picks out a book and flicks through it. A cloud of dust puffs up to permeate the atmosphere. “Perhaps we should wait for this Lenore to return before we abscond with her mushrooms.”

“Not something I think we have time for-” Wyll starts, before Astarion sidles up to him.

“Oh, let the wizard read for a bit! He’s positively starved of letters, look at the poor man. Pale and shivering like he has the rickets. I want to show you something,” Astarion tugs at Wyll’s arm, leading him to one of the balconies.

There is something strange about being so high up, and yet the only air that reaches them is the stale, still air of the Underdark. No breeze at all. In the distance, mushrooms blink at them like stars brought down from the heavens.

“The duergar you promised the walking mushrooms you’d kill. Can you see them?” Astarion points into the darkness, but it’s hopeless. The vampire’s keen eyes can pick them out, but Wyll sees only the swaying lights of mushrooms, and a dark spot where the duergar must have scorched the area of fungal influences. “Boats moored by the docks, there. They are rooting about in the wet sandbank, like crabs,” Astarion sneers.

“Nicely spotted. They’ll fall to the Blade of Frontiers; another page for the books.”

Astarion makes a face at him, then taps his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Well. Murder is murder. I suppose if you approve of it, it is no skin off my nose.”

Wyll smiles, gives said nose a kiss. Astarion wrinkles it in disgust. He smells a little musky, like the blood of the minotaurs they’d ran into before being sidetracked by myconids. Wyll will admit that Astarion fights ferociously, a clever shadow darting in and out of danger, a flash of teeth and quick daggers, trailed by a spurt of blood, even in the face of a much larger enemy. The donkey had barely gotten out of the ordeal intact. Now, they have left the poor thing in the village while they blaze a trail.

“Enthusiastic or not, you’re becoming a recurring figure in my tales. How shall we refer to you in these stories of ours?”

“Oh, please. No melodramatic names, enduring the gratitude of the worthless peasants you decide to help will be punishment enough.”

Wyll’s tone is light. “If you wish to hunt with the Blade, you will have to endure some heroics.” Despite himself, he leans on the wall nonchalantly, taking in the view and the rare quiet. Yes, they live on borrowed time... but the past few weeks have been intense.

“Fine. But I only do it for the sex,” Astarion purrs. He flows into Wyll’s arms like molasses, and presses a thigh to Wyll’s groin. “The Blade has quite the blade.”

Wyll represses moan but cannot entirely swallow a sharp intake of breath. “Ah, if that is the naming tradition we follow, we shall have to call you ‘the Dagger.’ Relative to the size of the instrument, you understand.”

“You think that is an insult? A skilled craftsman can work with a teaspoon. Only a clumsy buffoon would need the reach of a blade to be... efficient.”

“That so? Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate.”

Astarion raises his eyebrows at him. “Here? Now? Why, I was thinking you’re a just a tad stodgy, but oh my.”

Wyll snatches the seeking hands just as Astarion cleverly seeks his groin. “Hells, vampire! No, not here, later.” He whispers.

“Oh, come. Gale is reading and Shadowheart is taking a nap. We’ve yet to turn into beasts. What’s two minutes to and fro?”

“Two minutes,” Wyll scoffs.

“That’s all I’ll need.”

Wyll has no doubt that Gale is indeed absorbed in some book, and when he seeks Shadowheart’s consciousness, she is indeed dozing, consciousness curled inwards as she rests in comfort for the first time in weeks. So when Astarion sinks down on his knees in front of Wyll, he lets the vampire’s wrists slip out of his hands and allows himself to relax. Deftly unlacing Wyll’s trousers, the vampire carefully takes him into his mouth. He’s so careful not to scrape the delicate skin with his teeth. Wyll runs his hands through his wild curls, sighing softly as tension leaves his shoulders and his eyes flutter shut. Astarion’s mouth is cold, but his tongue and fingers are clever and practiced.

Astarion’s pace is deliberate and slow, almost torturously so. Wyll bites his tongue to emit no more sound than the occasional sigh and low gasp. At any moment, their companions may wonder what is taking them so long and discover them, and that balances Wyll on an edge he did not know would be so sweet. His grip on Astarion’s hair tightens a little and the vampire inhales through his nose, a pleasured noise escaping him.

Like Astarion predicted, it doesn’t take long before Wyll feels pleasure cascading over him and his slow breathing becomes laboured. The vampire takes Wyll inside him entirely, pressing his nose into the hair of Wyll’s sex as Wyll spills his seed. As they part from one another, Astarion looks up at him, seeking and triumphant, admiring his glossy skin and heaving chest, before his eyes roam down to watch a last white drop of come bead on Wyll’s penis. The vampire laps it away with a broad lick of his tongue before letting Wyll tuck himself away and make himself decent. But the sight sends another hot spike through Wyll’s gut.

The vampire looks thoroughly indecent, even if he never removed any clothes. His hair is tousled and his lips have a mussy redness to them. He licks them slowly with the tip of his tongue, holding Wyll’s eyes as if daring, begging him to go again.

Damn this creature.

But two can play with expectations.

Wyll hauls him to his feet and kisses the vampire, tasting a mix of his own musk and ox blood. And then, just as the vampire is getting worked up, he twists him around, pinning him to the railing, collecting his wrists into one hand. Wyll pushes his groin into the vampire’s ass, rewarded with a curious, shaking “oh.” 

“When we have a bit more privacy, I’m going to have you like this,” he whispers. Astarion’s ear vibrates at the touch of his breath. And then Wyll lets him go and leaves, letting a flustered Astarion collect himself alone.

If Gale or Shadowheart were wise to their balcony activities, they do not show it. Gale was buried in a book, and perturbed but pleased to hear their next stop had been established.

The duergar are wily and cruel, but the vampire is wilier. Wyll stands steadfast, blade arm still empowered by waning demonic energy, side by side with Shadowheart, while Gale provides cover fire. Astarion picks the dwarves off, one by one. Occasionally, Wyll meets his red, hungry eyes in the dark.

The sovereign rewards them with gemstones and a meal which, to a myconid, probably appears to be the sort of lavish centre table it may have picked up in the minds of passing travellers.

We hope this feast honours you, it sings. The intonations reverberate in their heads. 

The dishes are a miss-matched collection of sweet and savoury, breakfast meals and supper meals, clumsily prepared by creatures that do not sustain themselves by eating as most surface races do. The table is a soft, flat mushroom, and the flesh of it sinks a little as Wyll rests his arms on the edge. But Wyll picks a few dishes that look safe, and eats. Not the worst meal he has eaten in the past few weeks, all things considered, and the sovereign is watching them expectantly. 

Astarion sits to his left. He has been in a bit of a mood since Omelum’s revelations, but he pours wine into Wyll’s goblet, and then into his own. He does not partake of the food. A nearby myconid, glowing green, enquires in long notes about whether things are not to his liking.

“Oh, I’m on a very strict diet. It’s a medical issue, nothing wrong with the food, you understand,” Astarion smiles toothily and holds up his wine glass as if to toast the large myconid. There is a lot wrong with the food, really, but he derives a lot more entertainment from watching Gale trying to politely eat it, than bringing the flaws up with their hosts. With a moment’s hesitation, the myconid mimics the gesture with an empty, tendrilled hand. They watch it lumber away, and Astarion turns to Wyll to mutter, “if every grand gesture of yours is to be rewarded with a feast or party of some kind, it is not so bad; I can simply endure it by drinking myself into a stupor.”

“Come now. I imagine it’s cathartic for you, killing slavers.”

Astarion narrows his eyes at him and speaks low, “That is not why I did it. Slaves are not compelled. Were I a simple slave such as _that_ , I would slit the throat of my master and be on my merry way, and if a slave is too pathetic to do that, then that is their problem! Don't presume what I need.” He looks as if he’s about to say more, but then he flows to his feet. “Don’t follow me. I need some fucking space.” And he walks off, wine bottle in hand.

The sovereign watches them curiously and Wyll quickly placates the creature. “I beg your pardon, your highness. He has a medical condition.”

“Yes, he has a rare condition called petulantis perpetualis,” Gale quips, while he attempts to eat another bite of something that looks to be a poached pear floating in some sort of gravy.

When Astarion does not return to their designated sleeping quarters later that night, Wyll decides the vampire has had enough time to cool off.

He does not think he’ll ever be able to loose the vampire entirely again; when he closes his eyes and thinks of nothing, he can feel his companions at the edge of his periphery. Gale is a blank slate, Shadowheart is shrouded. Astarion is a tumultuous mess, and so he follows that link.

Their connection leads him up a steep little hill, and at the top, Wyll finds Astarion nestled in a layer of ghostly clovers under a blue mushroom cap. He looks to be asleep, but Wyll knows that he is simply being ignored. Three empty bottles are tossed about around, and Wyll picks one up to inspect it. “You like this vintage?”

Astarion gives up on giving him the cold shoulder, shakes his head slightly and opens his eyes blearily. His voice slurs a little, blurring the words around their edges. “Food is ash and wine is vinegar. Just enjoy the feeling.”

Mushroom spores are already drifting, settling in the dilapidated village beyond the hill. Astarion watches him, and Wyll feels a flash of appreciation for himself. The dust from the blue mushroom is speckling his dark skin like stars. He smells very good. His blood rushes so prettily in his veins. His hands are firm, but gentle. Astarion puts a coy finger to his lips. “You said you’d fuck me later. It’s later.”

“Not while you’re this drunk.”

“Tav would.”

Wyll makes a grimaced smile. “Yes. He would. I’m not sure why you think that’ll convince me to change my mind, Astarion. Tav’s not exactly a bastion of morally upstanding choices.”

“Ugh, you bastard,” Astarion whines and rubs his face. “Stop talking, then.”

“That should teach you to go a bit easier on the bottle, I suppose.” But Wyll sits down next to the vampire and strokes his hair anyway. A dusting of blue spores settled in the white curls dislodges at his touch.

“If we were cured, Wyll, what would you really do?”

Wyll shakes his head. “We’d go on our merry way, you and I. Deal with our problems, like we spoke of.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. You, and Gale, and Shadowheart...” Astarion tilts his head. “For all of you this is well and good, but I’m still doomed.”

For a moment, Wyll does not understand. Then realisation drains him.

Astarion is exuberant and lively, and gloomy and angry in turn, because for him, he truly is better off with the certain doom of the tadpole nestled in his mind. Without it, he belongs to someone else. He is happy now, and he is angry that he cannot stay happy.

“If you were cured... Would you be a danger to us?”

Astarion shakes his head. “I think I would simply feel compelled to return to Cazador as swiftly as possible.” His voice is flat. “What do you think I would like you to do about that?”

“You just asked me to not presume your needs.”

“Humour me.”

Wyll considers the vampire. “Were the roles reversed, Astarion, I’d ask you to kill me. It would seem preferable to another two hundred years of torture.”

The vampire chortles. “You’d say that. Two hundred years must seem sooo long to you. But I don’t want to die... again.”

“Then I’ll hunt down Cazador.”

The vampire considers him, swaying slightly. “Have to be certain you can pull it off. Otherwise, it’s just suicide.” Then he produces a fourth bottle of wine, hidden in the foliage besides him, and uncorks it with his teeth.

“Nope,” Wyll says, swiping it it from his hands. “We’ve got a boat to catch tomorrow morning. I’m taking you to bed so you can sleep all of this off.”

“Swear you won’t kill me, first. If we’re cured, just get out of my way.”

Wyll sighs. “It won’t come to that, Astarion. We’ll figure something out.”

“I’ll kill you if you get in my way. You have to swear.” Astarion is sitting up fully now, leaning into Wyll’s lap. His red eyes are pleading.

Wyll hunts beasts. But Astarion is as much beast as he is person. It’s become difficult to imagine running a stake through his chest, no matter the circumstances.

“Fine, I swear it.”

They nearly fall down the hill. Wyll is not quite cat-like on his feet at the best of times, and he is trying to prop up a very tipsy vampire. A little ways into the village, Astarion remembers a bawdy song and tries to sing it to Wyll to see if he knows it, but the language is so dated, Wyll can barely understand what the song is about at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow wrote 5 chapters with a horny, slutty vampire and only 2 of them have sex in them whaaat
> 
> I really thought this would be the last chapter but then I kind of started writing another chapter so I’ve updated the chapter count again ‘:-)


	6. Love Bites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this chapter, a bit of time has passed since the previous one. I don’t really want to speculate on what’ll happen in Moonrise Tower so I just glossed over it all.

The little river settlement is the first proper town they arrive in after their travails in the Underdark. It’s the ass end of nowhere, as far as Wyll can tell, but it’s on the Chiontar, and so they are on the right track. Whether they are further away from Baldur’s Gate than when they crashed, remains to be seen; they’ve been thoroughly turned around in the Underdark and it’s not like the Myconids were sitting on a map of the surface.

The first day back on the surface, his eyes squint at the brightness of the sun, and he wonders briefly if this is how Astarion felt when he crawled out of his pod underneath the clear, blue sky, after the nautiloid crashed. Astarion, for his part, is walking with a gleeful spring to his step. His pleasure at feeling the sun kissing his skin again drips off him and infect them all with a sort of giddy relief. Laughter comes easy.

Nothing’s resolved, but nothing’s changed, either, and Wyll counts every day his skin is intact as a blessing. 

It is strange to talk to regular folk now, untouched by the tadpole’s influence. He almost instinctively seeks a mind connection with the gruff innkeeper, but of course there’s none to be had. To Wyll, this almost feels as gratifying as speaking to a rock, and he wonders if regular folk will seem like this to him until the tadpole is dislodged.

Perhaps he will never be able to see people the same way again. What will speaking to his father feel like?

The innkeeper has asked how many rooms they want, and he realises with a start that he has taken too long to answer.

“I suspect we only need three rooms?” Gale says carefully, but he looks at Shadowheart as if asking a silent question.

“Two rooms. To go easy on our gold,” Shadowheart says evenly. She still does not manage to stifle the heated colour rising up her cheeks and Astarion gasps, mock-scandalised. Wyll shushes him and Astarion shushes him back.

“If you’re certain you’d be comfortable, of course,” Gale seems both pleased with himself, and uncertain.

“By the hells, Gale, stop questioning the lady and give her what she wants,” Astarion rolls his eyes. 

Wyll shushes Astarion again and clears his throat before turning to the tavern keeper. “Right. Two rooms, please.”

The gruff, heavy man slides two keys across the counter. His fingers are thick and pink, like sausages. The keys have numbers engraved on them. “Rooms are upstairs. Bath house’s out back. Use it. I run a respectable establishment and I don’t want bugs in my sheets nor vagrants stinking up my common area.“ Then he walks off.

Gale pursues him. “Excuse me, and some hay for the donkey? And I was wondering about procuring a map of the area...”

“Did that brutish peasant just imply that we’re unwashed?” Astarion whispers.

“The last time you washed, it was out of a bucket of murky Underdark lake water. And then it rained on us a bit before we came here.” Shadowheart mutters back.

“Well yes, but that’s rather forward of him.”

Whether it’s proximity or their shared minds, it doesn’t occur to them to be shy around each other anymore. Now, even Gale’s mind is occasionally open to them, and not always by design. It would not be possible for them to be more intimate, so they strip down and wash off together, paying little mind to each other’s nudity. Perhaps, some time ago, they all would have preferred privacy, but safety decreed it not an option.

Wyll does cast an appraising glance at Astarion. Likely the only one amongst them whose conditions have been improved by their kidnapping, the vampire seems healthier than he looked when they met. His ribs are no longer poking out like skin stretched across gnarled branches. He is gracefully lean and his features are sharp and starkly beautiful rather than sallow and sunken. Certainly it is more befitting the vampire’s confidence in his own appearance and Wyll wonders what possesses a high vampire to collect such individuals, and then twist and starve them. 

They reconvene inside, huddling around a table by the fire, still a bit damp.

“We’re here,” Gale rolls out a map, and points at crossroads, barely given notice on the map. “We’re a few days from Ulgoth’s Beard, and from there it’s not far to Baldur’s Gate.”

“Then we might want to rest here for a day or two. We shouldn’t approach the city unprepared, and Ulgoth’s Beard is close enough that we might be recognised by any welcoming parties,” Wyll muses. “It’s hard to tell what’ll await us in Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion has been watching the other inn patrons with aloof disinterest. Now he lights up with a new thought, and his fingers touch Wyll’s arm. “We should get some new clothes!”

“Astarion. We’re not here for fun.”

“And I’m serious! Do you honestly expect that I won’t draw attention dressed in leathers crafted in the drow tradition? My doublet is in tatters. And frankly, your own garments look just as dreadful.” The vampire crosses his arms indignantly, but their minds touch. He has gotten fairly good at controlling his bleeding mind, and this time their mingled thoughts are a deliberate caress, carrying a plea too raw for spoken words. This is more than just a whim. Please.

“He’s not wrong. It’s practical for the roads and wilderness, but we’ll draw unnecessary attention if we approach Baldur’s Gate in full armour,” Shadowheart says.

“I would not mind a trip to the local market; I could stand to restock some of my spell components, and you never know what treasures you can dredge up in these smaller towns!” Gale beams. “And perhaps they have a book store?”

“Preposterous. Peasants don’t read.”

Gale folds his hands, concerned. “Well. Perhaps they did not read two hundred years ago, but I assure you, these days most children have a bit of schooling and most folk know their letters.”

Astarion stares at all of them with genuine consternation. “Whatever for?”

Wyll cuts in before this can become a full-blown discussion of socio-economics, or any of the other patrons overhear them and decide to take issue. “Let’s say today’s a day for rest and restock, then. As long as we don’t draw attention.”

They find a tailor’s shop. Small, and merely ‘acceptable,’ as Astarion describes it, but they are not in Baldur’s Gate and so it is either this, or nothing. 

Astarion shows Wyll a shirt he is pondering. The colours are a pale sunset pink, and the fabrics looser and softer than the garments Wyll is used to seeing him in. Astarion still gravitates towards lace, it would seem. Just a bit around the sleeves; the clothing sold here is not of the fine fabrics or affluent details one would see in the richer parts of Baldur’s Gate. The people here could not afford that, and truthfully, neither can they.

“It’ll need some taking in to fit me, but what do you think?”

“It’s different from your usual,” Wyll observes, because that’s really the only thought he has about it. 

“Well, yes, but really, black is rather on the heavy side for my delicate complexion, don’t you think?”

“Mate, I have no idea. It looks nice?”

Astarion gives him an exasperated look. His mind bleeds a fraying droplet into Wyll’s. But before it can shift into focus, Astarion clamps his mind shut and turns his attention to Shadowheart, who is pondering over her own choices.

“I like black,” she muses. ”A nice black is always appropriate. Mysterious. And it takes a fair bit of dirt before it looks so bad you can’t wear it.”

“Hmm, I agree, black is wonderful on you, darling. But I think you should try something olive, too. Brings out your eyes, see?” Astarion guides Shadowheart to a mirror and drapes a fine green tunic over Shadowheart’s shoulder, carefully casting a glance at the shop keeper first. It would be silly to be caught and driven out of town with pitchforks and torches simply because he was not careful about his lack of reflection. “Not every choice should be about what’s practical.”

Shadowheart hums her agreement and the two have a low discussion. It would seem they will take a while here, and while Wyll is hesitant to leave Astarion to his own devices, he knows the vampire is not dumb enough to rile strangers up on purpose.

Wyll chooses a few simple garments, but before he can pay, Astarion glares at him as if he has made an egregious mistake, and swaps some of them out, before he nods, satisfied, and lets Wyll leave with his purchases.

He wanders the market for some time. Really, his mind is on the feather beds back at the inn, but the sun is still high in the sky and he wants to purchase some provisions; their potion supplies are running low. And then the apothecary sells sweets, so he buys some of those, too, because when have they last had sweets? Gale will love them.

The normalcy lulls him in and he wanders about the market. There is not a fully fledged book store, but there is an elderly halfling who sells cheaply printed pamphlets from a stall. Prayers and agricultural advice, for the most part. Not, perhaps, what Gale had in mind, but Wyll purchases a booklet of bawdy poetry, mostly because he wants to show Astarion an example of the sort of things peasant-folk read for fun. The halfling chuckles jovially at his choice of literature.

He browses a dwarven woman’s simple jewellery selection next, and selects a floral hair brooch which he thinks will suit Shadowheart’s tastes. As he’s counting up his coins to pay, his eye drift to a long string of river pearls. The beads are small, uneven shapes, a pale, white colour, and this puts him in mind of Astarion. He considers for a bit, and then purchases that, too. Next, he stops by the butcher because he doubts Astarion has considered how he’ll sustain himself in a civilised environment, beyond stealing some unfortunate soul’s chickens like a common fox.

By the time Wyll returns to the tavern, he’s spent a bit of gold on a handful of things he truly does not need, but if he explodes into a mass of tentacles tomorrow, then what good is money anyway? Might have been a time he would have nicked things such as these. But he has other challenges to pursue now. He has a small whittling dagger, a flask of local whiskey, an ugly cloak pin, a woolly scarf, a pouch with a funny face embroidered on it, a set of bone dice... He unlocks the door to their room, and opens it.

There’s already someone in the room. Wyll jumps out of his skin and almost conjures a spell, before he realises it is only Astarion. Closing the door behind himself, heart still hammering, he hisses, “hells, vampire. How did you get in?”

Astarion is sitting cross-legged on the floor, with a needle in one hand. His eyes flick up at Wyll and then back down at the garment he is working on. “The window, naturally. Shadowheart was swanning about with Gale, and amusing as their dalliance is, it is also...” A heavy, put upon sigh. ”Rather boring.”

“What happened to ‘don’t draw attention?’ Scampering about on the wall is hardly discreet.”

“Please. I’m not an amateur. Nobody saw.”

Wyll shakes his head, and places a stoppered flask of red liquid on the floor next to the vampire.

Astarion leans away and eyes the offering, a mix of intrigue and disgust crossing his features. “What is that?”

“Pig’s blood. From the butcher.”

“Ugh.”

“Folk cook with this stuff. Draining people’s livestock is the opposite of being careful, mate.”

“It’s hardly the same when it’s cold and in a bottle. I have gotten rather used to a more... refined diet.”

“I’m sure we’ll encounter some miscreant on the road you can sink your teeth into soon enough.”

They’re both quiet for a bit and Astarion does not look at him. The moment lasts just long enough that Wyll wonders if the vampire is upset. Then Astarion looks at him. “Thank you. I’ll drink it later.”

The room is very small, and Astarion glares at him when Wyll moves to cross the working area he has claimed for himself on the floor. So he sidles along the wall instead, and plops himself and the rest of his purchases on the bed. The mattress sinks softly beneath him, and he groans as if he has just been given the most exquisite massage. He watches Astarion make a few quick stitches, before he snips his needle loose and turns the garment the right side out with a thoughtful hum. If he had not just seen it done, Wyll would not have guessed that the garment has been altered.

“It’s nice seeing you do something that’s got nothing to do with murder or sex. Where does a vampire of noble stock learn a craft?”

Astarion scoffs. “Cazador demanded his slaves look impeccable, and that any ‘gifted’ garments be kept in good condition. Two hundred years is a long time perfect a little handicraft. Particularly when your skin depends on it...” Astarion’s voice trails off, and he brushes a hand over the fabric of the garment, examining his stitches. Then he slips his fraying shirt off and tosses it away as if he does not care where it ends up, before he slips on the new one. He looks down at himself as if assessing the fit. “It’s simple, but I chose this.” He’s quiet, almost as if reassuring himself. He puts his knuckles to his mouth and mumbles into them. “It would be entirely unacceptable to him, of course. Too soft. Too bright.”

“Would you like to see yourself? As I see you.”

“Please.”

“One moment.” Wyll holds up a finger, then sorts through the things he’s brought home from the market.

Astarion climbs into the bed to perch next to him. “Lover, why have you immediately filled our bed with garbage?” He picks up the bag with the funny, embroidered face with a look of distaste.

“It’s not garbage, it’s... stuff. Close your eyes.”

For once in his unlife, Astarion listens the first time, and Wyll loops the river pearl necklace twice about his neck, tucking it into the loose neckline of the shirt. The vampire threads it through his pale fingers, as if he cannot quite understand. “It’s a gift. No strings or rules attached, though, it was just a few coppers. You can just... throw it out if you don’t like it. Now open your eyes.”

Astarion does, red eyes flickering down at the tiny pearls in his hand. Wyll reaches out to his mind, impressing upon him that moment.

The vampire hesitates. “Does my hair always look this unruly?”

Wyll chuckles. “I’ll be honest with you, mate. This is a tame hair day for you. I think it’s sweet.”

Astarion is too quiet, eyes downturned in thought. Fear is rolling off him in uncontrolled waves. Wyll watches him worry and feels this is more than mere vanity. It’s the spawn’s sire. The ghosts of a leash. Astarion hasn’t made his own choices, however menial, for the past two centuries, and now he is wearing garments he knows would displease his master, entirely on purpose, and not simply because it’s practical. The thoughts twist in on themselves in a loop. There’s no untangling them.

“What else did you pick out?” Wyll is watching him with a gentle eye, tries to break the chasing pattern in his mind.

“I should have returned to him.” Astarion winds the necklace about his palm. He does like it. The pearls are smooth and uneven around his fingers. Cazador will take it from him. Strangle him with it. Command him to stitch it into his skin. The thought of the Master’s wrath is obscuring all other thoughts like a thick fog. He has broken so many rules. He will be punished. Should be punished. He grits his teeth so hard it hurts his head. No, he makes his own rules now. “Fuck me like you did the first time. When you held me down because you thought I would bite.”

Wyll puts his hand on his cheek, gently stroking his face with his thumb. “Look, there’s no need. I know you won’t bite me.”

Astarion squirms in frustration; Wyll does not understand. With a sudden strike, he sinks his teeth into Wyll’s palm, the one gently cupping his cheek. It’s not a good place for drawing blood, but it is painful and Wyll shouts, startled. For a brief moment, Wyll’s blood fills his mouth. He tastes as nice as he smells. Then Wyll pries him off and holds him down on the soft bed, his unharmed hand around Astarion’s throat.

They both breathe heavily. The scent of blood fills the air, but it’s not enough to drown out the fear. He wants to be hurt and held. To struggle, or submit because it’s his choice, and Wyll’s hold on him is too light, still.

“What’s gotten into you?!” The warlock keeps his voice low, but the disbelief and the anger gives it a hard edge that makes something low in Astarion’s belly tingle with warmth and excitement.

“Lie down with dogs, expect fleas,” Astarion sneers. He can feel a drop of blood from run down his cheeks as he stares at Wyll. The man inhales sharply and Astarion exhales expectantly, steeling himself for a blow, a spell, whatever Wyll might do to him. “Go ahead. Be angry. What will you do?”

“What’ll I do? I’m throwing you out! You can go sleep in the barn with the donkey, you cunt.”

“What?” That’s not right. When the master is angry, he takes it out on others. On him. He does not simply throw people out to be alone; they all partake in his anger. But Wyll wants to be alone with his anger. Astarion can feel the intent and truth of it through their connection.

“You bit me!” Wyll gesticulates with his still bleeding hand as if they have both already forgotten, though the taste of him is still clouding the vampire’s senses. Then he gets up and pulls Astarion out of the bed to discard him outside, but Astarion resists. He does not want to be alone with his thoughts, even if Wyll does. This has very much gone off the script he imagined in his head, where Wyll would simply have punished him for his transgressions with angry sex and then Astarion would fight his punishment because he can, before submitting to the pleasure, because he wants to, and then... well, he hadn’t considered it further than that.

“Wait, Wyll, please...” The pleading is instinctive. Cazador likes it when he begs and grovels. Wyll does not, but he lets go of Astarion all the same. Astarion retreats from him, as far as he can in this little room, and the door, because Wyll’s anger is so strange.

Wyll leans on the door, visibly composing himself. “After continuously insisting I trust your teeth, why did you bite me?”

“Because it would make you angry.” Astarion wrings his hands.

Wyll pauses, then holds his hands up. He affects calm, but Astarion can feel the coursing of his blood. He is not calm. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You bit me because you wanted me to be angry with you, and now that I am angry at you, you’re upset.”

“No, it... It’s the wrong angry.”

Wyll barks a laugh at him and Astarion can feel his cheeks tingle with a red-hot flush. It’s not often his body works up any sort of heat of its own, and the feeling is always strange. After a few hot moments, Wyll’s laughter subsides and he jerks his thumb at the door. “Get out.”

“I don’t think I deserve to be discarded for one silly mistake,” Astarion mumbles. He sounds pathetic, grovelling with a human. But he doesn’t want to be alone. He wants Wyll. “This is your fault for not listening in the first place.”

Wyll pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, just... show me what the fuck you were trying to do.”

Astarion hesitates, tries to get his thoughts in order, but he’s too flustered, and Wyll pushes into his mind too soon.

His features set harshly into a cold scowl. His anger is no longer hot and focused; it disperses into a fog, settles calmly in his blood. He is still angry, but is no longer directed at Astarion, and maybe that's better. “No. I’m not going to act like him.”

“It would just be like a game,” Astarion tries to explain.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“Oh, come. You won’t. You could not even get close to imagining his sadism.”

Wyll is quiet. His scowl is softening, but he is no longer watching Astarion and that makes the vampire fidget. He seeks Wyll’s mind for a hint of what he is thinking, but finds it closed to him. The hunter fetches bandages from his pack and starts winding them about his bitten palm, studiously ignoring the vampire. Astarion sighs. It seems the game is up. He starts to move back to the bed, and Wyll finally looks at him. “Did I say you could move?” Astarion freezes, then steps back to where he was, and Wyll nods at him. 

“Good lad. Let’s be serious for a moment. If you try to fight me, I’ll do as I please. But if you ask for anything, I’ll listen. If you put your teeth on me again I really will throw you out.”

Astarion attempts to compose himself, to make his voice smooth as silk, but he sounds breathy and desperate even to his own ears. “I understand. I’ll be good.”

Wyll seats himself on the edge of the bed and leisurely uncorks the whiskey he bought in the village. He takes a long drink before he considers Astarion again. But he likes the game. Astarion can smell his desire. “Undress. Leave the jewellery.”

Oh. That sends shivers down his spine. Astarion undresses slowly. Wyll’s eye is on him as he slips out of his clothes, piece by piece. The man’s taste is still fresh on his tongue and he yearns to lick the sweat off his dark, strong chest. The pearls lay cool and gleaming pale on the vampire’s skin in a long, lazy double loop and he is sure the effect is mesmerising.

“Seems that vampire hunter was right. Spawn really do find it difficult to disobey. Or...” Wyll considers him. “Maybe you’re too wanton to play your own game.” There’s a challenge in his voice and when he beckons Astarion to come close with two of his fingers, they both know he’ll disobey. Astarion’s breath catches in his throat as he refuses the order.

The room is not large. Within two steps, Astarion is within Wyll’s reach, and he winds the string of pearls around his hand and tugs Astarion down to his knees before him. The pearls catch lightly on his skin and Astarion imagines all of them scattering on the floor, if Wyll is to be any more forceful. They look much nicer around his neck, he thinks, so he follows where Wyll directs him, until his nose is pushed against Wyll’s sex, hard through his trousers. The floor is hard and cold under his knees as he balances on them and unbuckles Wyll’s belt, unlaces the trousers to take Wyll into his mouth. The string of little river pearls slacken around his throat, Wyll’s hand moving to card through his hair instead. His musk fills Astarion’s senses entirely. He smells of pine soap and sweat and tastes like salt and leather.

He’s not allowed the taste for long. Wyll’s hand tightens in his hair and pulls him away. His cheeks are flushed and his breath is heavy and hot and Astarion feels gratified to know himself so skilled. “You have your oil?”

Astarion has never found anything in his disorganised pack so fast. He holds the little vial out to Wyll, but the man does not take the offering. Instead, he looks at his whiskey, then pours a generous splash into his travelling cup. ”Use it on yourself. I am going to enjoy this drink and watch, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

Of all the things his sire puts him through, Astarion most fears when he is ordered to act on his own flesh. When the sire does things to him, he can scream, and he can weep, and he can grit his teeth. When he is compelled to turn his knife on himself, or to lick putrid blood off the stone floor by Cazador’s chair, it feels violating in a way it does not when he forcefully is made to comply.

From the way Wyll is watching him, he knows he’s asking for a lot. He’s still frowning a little, but his eye is soft. It’s different with Wyll. Astarion can say no, and he would likely stroke his hair and tell him it’s fine. A part of Astarion wants to do just that, so that he can be coddled and comforted like a noble’s lapdog. But he also wants to play the game, and so he breathes in, then out, before he obeys.

He focuses on Wyll’s sex as he gently presses his fingers into himself. It is still erect, dark and glossy against the fabric of Wyll’s shirt. He thinks of Wyll’s fingers in him as he massages more slick fluid into himself and soon enough he is whispering Wyll’s name with each stroke. He’s naked and on his knees on the floor, while the man is standing over him, drinking whiskey. His penis aches at the thought, untouched and curling up towards his belly. He wants to touch Wyll’s bare chest, feel the rippling skin of his scars and the strange hairs humans have on their bodies. He wonders if he will still be permitted to lightly scratch Wyll’s collarbone with his teeth or if his silly actions have lost him that privilege forever. 

The clink of Wyll’s cup as it is set on the small side table halts his train of thought and he is hauled bodily into the bed with much more force than he is used to from his patient lover. His arms are wrenched behind his back and he feels the leather of Wyll’s belt, he thinks, wind about his wrists. It digs into his skin as he half-heartedly tries to squirm free, but he is quite tied up.

Wyll hums thoughtfully and trails the ridges of his spine. The gentle touch of his calloused fingers on his scarred back makes Astarion attempt to slither away from his touch. His movements are so undignified like this, he near tips himself over while trying to get away.

“You can just say stop,” Wyll reminds him. His voice is laboured and breathy, but suddenly uncertain. “I’m not doing this if I’m not sure you’ll tell me when you’ve had enough.”

Astarion laughs at that. He has not had nearly enough. He is hurting with need. His sex is rubbing against the soft linens when he tries to squirm away. “When have you known me to quietly put up with things that were displeasing to me?”

“Fair point,” Wyll concedes. Then his fingers dig into Astarion’s hips and pulls his ass flush against his own hardness. Determined to not be easy, Astarion tries to slip out of his grip, hissing and growling as he resists. But Wyll’s hold on him is firm and he enters in a smooth stroke that has Astarion moaning in pain and pleasure. He makes good on his promise.

Tied like this, Astarion can barely do anything to brace himself as Wyll rides him hard and fast. His knees scrabble for purchase and his jaw falls open as he takes in ragged gulps of breath, and he mouths at the linens instinctively. The thinly woven fabric tears on his teeth. The bed shifts as Wyll climbs over him for better purchase, and the different angle sends Astarion into enraptured moans. Wyll’s hand is on his sex, stroking him gently, in stark contrast to the rhythm of their fucking, and soon enough Astarion whimpers and curls in on himself as he comes into Wyll’s hand while the hunter whispers breathy encouragements at him. He can feel Wyll pulsating inside him as he reaches his peak soon after.

He stretches out in tired bliss as Wyll unties his wrists. He winds the little pearls around his hand and closes his eyes while he listens to the sounds of Wyll messing around with the little wash basin the room was provided with. The rustle of clothing. A cold, wet cloth wipes his cheek and he makes a displeased noise.

“Blood on your face,” Wyll murmurs. Astarion feels his warmth as he climbs into the bed and tucks the covers around them both. His bandaged hand settles on Astarion’s belly.

The fear hasn’t entirely let go. Were he on his own, it’d be so easy to waltz through this interlude of his servitude making mistake after mistake until Cazador reels him back in. But Wyll has adequately cushioned his stumbling so far. He decides to place his trust in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part of this chapter where Wyll gives Astarion the necklace was one of the first things I wrote for this pair, hence the name, and I’m glad I could finally work it in.
> 
> Wyll is basically running this party now because he’s the only responsible person around. 
> 
> I love the aesthetic of the silly doublet Astarion starts with as much as everyone else, but I can’t help but feel like he didn’t choose it and in game I basically swap it out for the basic leather armour as soon as I can. So I wanted to think about what kinda choices he might make for his own self expression, given the opportunity.
> 
> I'm planning another chapter but work's nuts right now and I don't think I'll get round to proper writing it until Christmas time, boo hiss.


End file.
